


Seeds of Discord Pt. 7

by kbj1123



Series: Wonder Woman & Captain America [8]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Crossover Pairings, F/M, One True Pairing, Sexual Content, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbj1123/pseuds/kbj1123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone or something is causing violent riots to erupt all over the U.S., and whatever it is, it wreaks havoc with both Wonder Woman's health and Bruce Banner's ability to keep his rage in check.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeds of Discord Pt. 7

It is six a.m. on February 10, and the whole city has come to a standstill. Diana stands naked in front of the open window because it feels good: the freezing sun on hot skin. Before sunrise, they’d gone on their run because she insisted that the treadmill wouldn’t be enough. He’d started out insisting she bundle up, but with each lap she shed another layer until she was down to leggings and a sports bra, making huge, emphatic strides in over three feet of snow and ice. She made new tracks each time around, refusing to allow herself the ease of retracing her steps. By the time they got home, the feel of any fabric against her skin was unbearable. Now, she lets her head fall back in the cradle of her shoulders and her damp hair streams down her back, almost down to her thighs. She spreads her palms wide, and the snow blows through the window and onto her throat and her breasts. The crystals linger briefly before they melt, but the storm is endless. There are always more snowflakes, more ice. She waits for the precipitation to move directly through her, to see how long it will take to become the thing that assails her. 

As the riots of the past few weeks have increased in frequency and proximity to her home, Diana has not felt quite right. She feels unanchored—as if she needs to hold onto something solid. She feels constantly assaulted by energy. If she remains untethered, she may never stop moving. 

Then there is a thump, and she is bereft. Steve regards her with a question on his face, but he won’t ask it. She is all watery skin on dampened wood floor. He wears a towel around his waist but she focuses on the top half of his body. It is pale, and the light through the glass creates the illusion that he’s actually hovering, emerged from the sky rather than having stepped in front of her to shut the window. 

Now she feels a chill so she steps toward him, toward this new source of light. He smells like soap and summertime. The change in perspective is momentarily dizzying. Part of her wonders if when she embraces him, she might fall straight past him and crash through the glass and into the air. She wonders if she’d fly or simply allow the winds whisk her away and then slam her to the ground, bringing relief. She wonders if this is how the riots begin—the need for massive amounts of pressure to keep everyone from being carried off toward what they should never become. She knows what that feels like: some other energy pushing you out of yourself, becoming something you don’t want to know that you really are.

He wants to say something but she interrupts by pressing her hands to his chest. His body is reassuringly solid against her palms. His heart is beating, and she can feel the ebb and flow of his breath through her fingertips. The towel around him is intolerable and rough. She tugs it off of him. He smiles and steps toward the bed but she says “No. Here on the wet floor.” She knows she confounds him sometimes. She also knows he’s used to it. In truth, the bed is too soft for now. She urgently needs the solidity of the ground beneath her. She won’t let him reply. She steadies herself against a wall and pulls his mouth into hers. 

She is Charybdis drowning in her own drink. When he pulls back from the kiss the fresh oxygen practically chokes her. He lifts her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and allows him to take her whole weight in his hands. When they sink to the floor and he lifts into her she bears down and presses as close as she can. She swims in fire, but it is the spaces between them that burn. If she makes herself small enough, she tells herself, he’ll absorb her. The water on her skin freezes and boils into him. If she gets close enough to his body and holds herself very still, there will be no spaces left for her to evaporate and then she’ll be him and he’ll be her and they will be whole. Her body betrays her eventually, though, because she can’t get close enough to seep through his skin. The closest she gets is upon absolute surrender, and sensation shuts out thought. She doesn’t float away. She is here. She can feel the boundaries of her own body. She can sense into the small spaces between her skin and his.

They lay on the floor facing each other. His fingers resting lightly on her back are cooling. He gently presses his left hand to hers so that wedding bands touch. The combination of metal and skin is a catalyst for her to breathe fully for what seems like the first time since she woke up. She wonders what he’s thinking about, but doesn’t ask. 

He presses a finger to the space just above her eyebrows. “What’s going on in there?” For the first time ever, Steve witnesses something he never thought Diana would do, even if it never really occurred to him either way. She begins to shake, and he sits up and lets her fold herself into his lap. Diana is sobbing. Her entire body trembles against his skin and he holds her as tightly as he can, wondering what to do. “Are you okay?” Well that’s a dumb question. “Are you hurt?” She shakes her head no. Her tears are hot, and they slide down his chest. That was also probably not the right question, anyway. She feels so fragile for someone so strong. He feels like an idiot. He sits on the cold, damp floor and holds onto her as she folds into him, until the sobbing gives way to crying, and then to slow, shuddery breaths.

Eventually, he helps her to her feet and leads her into the bathroom. He runs the bath and pours in the salt and oil she likes, and watches her lower herself into the oversized, claw footed tub. He knows what creature comforts tempt her the most. “Stay there,” he tells her, even though he doesn’t have to, and leaves. 

She pours a capful of bubbles under the faucet and then sinks back. She hears him moving around somewhere in the apartment. She imagines he’s been gone for days when he returns with a cup of tea and single-sized yogurt. “Come join me?” she asks. “Not until you eat something,” he replies, and slips a spoonful of blueberry yogurt into her mouth. He doesn’t join her until she dutifully finishes her breakfast and drinks all of her tea. “Do you feel better,” he asks. She admits that she was probably hungry. He laughs at her a little as he climbs behind her in the tub, trying not to wince at the near-boiling temperature. “What would you do if I wasn’t here?” He says, teasingly. 

“Float away,” she replies without any irony. “Maybe fall apart. One day soon you might have to tie me down just to keep me from disappearing.” He leans around to study her face. “I’m worried about you, lately.” 

She twists herself around and cradles his face in her hands. “I’m not really leaving,” she tells him. 

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. What’s going on?” 

“Honestly, I really don’t know. Maybe it’s all the violent energy I’ve been exposed to lately and it really is making me unwell. I feel slightly untethered. I’ve been dreaming about things—memories—that are better forgotten, and I’m so unbearably sad when I wake. Even I have a shameful, dark secret or two. I don’t know why they’re coming up now.”

This doesn’t make Steve feel any better, she can tell. She tries again, “When I aided in the liberation of Sachsenhausen, there was a high ranking scientist there whom I caught in the act of killing one of his subjects. He had taken the needles off of three large vials of bacteria solutions and was plunging them down a young man’s throat. The man was so emaciated and so thirsty that he swallowed the fluids readily. His eyes were enormous, and he kept telling the officer, “bitte, bitte, mehr.” I think he choked on the solution before the diseases burned through his body. The entire room smelled like decay and bleach, as if he’d been trying to purify death itself.” 

Steve puts a hand to Diana’s face and strokes it. “Steve, I did something terrible. I was so shaken at how evil human beings could be to each other. I didn’t even know I could be that angry, but it overtook me quickly. I slammed the officer’s head into a metal table over and over. Had Col. Trevor not found me, I probably would have tortured him to death. In fact I’m sure I would have. Every ounce of compassion I thought I’d possessed was gone for those few blinding moments. To this day, I wonder why, after all the atrocities I’d seen in the War, that one moment should have undone everything I thought I believed. I didn’t care about good or bad, about boundaries I shouldn’t ever cross. To this day, I am ashamed because I know that deep down, I might not be any better than anyone else. I’m capable of unspeakable things. It occurred to me then, as it does now, that I saw pure evil that day, and it wound its tendrils through my heart and I allowed it to fill me with rage. Later that day was the first time, but not the only one, when I deeply questioned whether I was really helping anyone in this world, if I was worthy of being Wonder Woman, this symbol for peace.”

She won’t even look at him directly. “I stopped looking for you after that, until the War ended and I want back home. I didn’t feel deserving. I began my search again because I was selfish and couldn’t stop thinking about you. I missed you too much to stop searching forever. When I remember these things, I certainly rethink whether I’m worthy of you.” 

Steve absorbs her tale silently. It’s a lot to absorb. It’s also not easy to focus on it when he’s torn between looking into her beautiful face, and watching her breasts move in the soapy water as she breathes. He closes his eyes and hopes she doesn’t think it’s because he doesn’t want to look at her. Why doesn’t she think she’s worthy of him? He isn’t sure what to think. He’s certainly seen enough atrocities in his lifetime feel absolute rage; he’s certainly had to kill in the line of duty. Has he ever felt murderous, though? Absolute hatred? Maybe. He tries to imagine what he might have done had it been him that day, so long ago. He probably might’ve reacted similarly. Would he have carried that guilt with him? The question gives him pause. No, not necessarily. Diana is wrong, he concludes. There is nothing evil that could ever even come close to her heart, needless to say take up residence there. He opens his eyes, reaches through the water and hugs her tightly and thanks her. “You can tell me anything,” he says. “In fact I want you to. I can’t judge you for losing control and empathy for someone who did something like that Nazi. You say you’re not technically human, but it’s not true. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be haunted by this.” He kisses her brow, the tip of her nose, and then her lips. 

“You’re truly the best person I know, Steve. You are my anchor. I would never keep anything from you that you wanted to know about my life.” She pauses, and he kisses her again. “The Japanese have an aphorism: every person has three hearts—each one encircling the other.” She draws an imaginary heart over his chest with her forefinger. “The first one is the one everyone sees, the one you share with the public.” She moves her finger to draw a smaller heart. “The second one is the one your friends see, the one you show to your family, the one you can only show when you’re sure your secrets will be safe if you reveal them.” She flattens her hand over the spot she’s been tracing. “Then, there’s the one that’s the real you—the one that knows all of your best and all of your darkest truths. It’s the one no one else gets to see.” She locks her eyes on his. “If a person is exceptionally fortunate, they might meet one person in their lifetime to whom they can reveal their third heart. That person is your soul mate. Some people never find that one person.” 

He grins. “Actually I’m a little relieved. For a minute there I thought you were asking me to tie you up!” 

Diana remains solemn. “I am, somewhat. Something you might not know about me is that when I am physically bound in Man’s World, my powers are muted. If this new, unstable energy in the world makes me too sick, if it makes me lose control, I may need you to keep me bound, literally.” She turns away again and rests her back against his chest. He rests his chin on her shoulder and looks at her as if trying to figure something out. She realizes he thinks she’s once again being metaphorical more often than she actually means to be. So she gestures in the air, bath bubbles dripping from between her fingers. Her lasso appears, and she drapes it over them both but keeps his arms free. 

“What ARE you doing?” She’s caused him alarm, but she doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she pulls the lasso tight around their torsos, and then loops the free end around and around her thighs. She slides her arms under the lasso and uses her mouth to pull it tight so that she can’t move. “Have you lost your mind, Diana?”

“Don’t let me disappoint you, Steve. You have to keep me bound so tightly to all the goodness that you are. Promise me.” She feels the muscles in his abdomen tighten and his back straighten. “I don’t blame you if you’re repelled. You can slip out of the lasso if you want to, if I repel you, but promise you’ll keep me held fast.” 

Instead he hugs her a little tighter. “I’m not repelled, Diana. I promise you. You don’t need a lasso. You came from a place where battle was a matter of honor and torture was unheard of. You came here and saw humanity at its worst. You saw Hell; I don’t blame you for making a connection to the things you see now. But sweetheart, you are my princess and my goddess and my angel. You are my wife and I will carry any burden of yours you want to give me.” He kisses tears off her face. They sit quietly, bound together. When he feels her muscles start to relax, he moves his mouth to her neck and begins to knead her shoulders. She seems even more vulnerable right now, and he wonders how much of it is because she really is emotionally raw at the moment, and how much is because she has bound herself so tightly. He wonders if Diana is immune to her own lasso of truth. Either way, he feels overwhelmingly protective and possessive right now. They are silent until the water becomes tepid. “Are you ready to get out?” he asks. She nods, and he starts once again to undo the knot at her wrists. She resists. Instead, she loops her bound wrists around Steve’s neck and says, quietly but firmly, “Please take me to bed. Take it off of yourself if you want to, but not me. Not yet.” 

He feels his stomach do something strange, but he stands up without stepping out of the lasso and scoops her into his arms, and does as requested. “I’m really not sure about this,” he tells her. He wonders if the lasso has the ability to loosen inhibitions. Maybe that’s how it makes you tell the truth, because in reality, his body is very sure about this. He thinks it’s likely that if he wasn’t in contact with the lasso of truth, he might have a little more control and be able to say no. As it is though, he doesn’t want to say no. Right now he wants to do exactly what she wants: keep her as closely bound to him as possible, not let her leave, not even let her move much. Right now he wants to be the source of all the joy and comfort she isn’t permitting herself, so he keeps her tied up and kisses her, first very slowly, then deeper and deeper. He’s a little horrified to admit to himself that the way she kisses him back, the fact that she can’t direct him with her hands or legs, has an aphrodisiac-like effect on him. He pays close attention to every reaction she has, everywhere he touches her with his hands and mouth. He goes over some places more than once with varying amounts of pressure and force to see if he can elicit the same responses more than once.

She keeps her eyes open, watching him with a mix of curiosity and trust. Maybe it’s that faith she has in him, combined with her sighs and that slight shaking she does, that makes it impossible for him to stop. He doesn’t want to stop. Even though the idea of his wife helpless should be awful, and knowing that he has no intention of hurting her, he also has no intention of stopping. Part of him despises himself right now. But she isn’t helpless, and she closes her eyes, rolls her head around on the pillow and arches into him when he enters her and puts his mouth to her jaw and her throat. No, she’s not helpless. It occurs to him to keep it that way. He sits up and unties her wrists completely, and her reaction is so strong that he nearly loses all control. She pulls him on top of her and digs her fingers deep into his back. She seals off his breath with her mouth, and tightens around him with intensity he’s never felt before, leaving them gasping for air as they climax together. 

Diana sleeps away the rest of the morning and early afternoon, leaving Steve to brood over this morning’s events. She is probably right; this shift in her moods, the way she races to intervene in any hint of civilian conflict, her raw vulnerability all probably stem from the same energy signatures SHIELD scientists have noticed in the places where these riots spring up. They all know this is real, and he’s seen it personally when Diana becomes so fatigued, or Bruce turns on a dime from calm friendliness to raging Hulk. He worries about what might happen if they don’t get in front of this thing. He worries about what might happen if Diana confronts whatever is causing this head-on.

It should make him feel good, probably, that she just trusted him with what she considers her most shameful secret. It should be validating that she believes him to be everything that is right and good in the world, to the point of abdicating her free will for a little while. Is that what happened just now? She wanted to stay tied up. When they were able to move again, she said she loved him, she curled up into him and said thank you. She waved her lasso away and it disappeared, and she said, “I think it’s safe now. Thank you, my sweet love,” as if he’d rescued her from something. He hadn’t. He shouldn’t have agreed to it. He should not have felt that much absolute physical and emotional pleasure over his wife’s physical and emotional fragility. What does it mean when in the absence of superego, he was more than willing to subjugate the person he cares for more than anything in the world? How trustworthy does that really make him? With that rope around him too, and he had no choice but to be truthful with himself, could he have stopped if she had changed her mind or gotten scared?

Or, what if he’d been manipulated by her? Maybe he really was doing exactly what she wanted him to do and she was selfish with her own motivations? Should he be feeling resentful instead of guilty? He floats the idea around for a few minutes, but it doesn’t make sense. He’s always absolutely honest with her, to his best knowledge. She gave him several chances to ditch the lasso’s hold on him, and he didn’t do it. The lasso showed him who he was. It’s not her fault if it turns out he doesn’t like what he saw. He intends to tell her later, when she wakes up, that this is not going to happen again. 

She looks peaceful as she sleeps right now. It isn’t the exhausted dead-to-the-world sleep she’s had, lately. Her hair is splayed out on the pillow like a dark halo, and her breathing is even and tranquil. The sky is gray. As far as he is concerned, she is the light source in the room. He rolls over to take his sketchbook and pencils out of his nightstand drawer.

By nighttime, it is still snowing. They eat dinner in front of the TV and the news lists the entire government as closed except for essential personnel. She’s slept for real, and she’s eaten, Steve thinks. He’s relieved, and not disappointed that in the absence of a superhero-worthy emergency, they’ll have well into Valentine’s Day to themselves. Meteorologists predict the blizzard to last for at least another forty-eight hours. “As long as no fights break out over bread and milk at the supermarket I guess the city is safe from violence for a while,” Steve suggests. Diana sighs. “Do you think we should head over to the shelter and deliver supplies tomorrow?” Steve shakes his head. He’d actually forgotten about that plan. When will she stop calling herself selfish? How can she even think that when all she does is think about the needs of other people? “Let’s do it tonight,” he tells her, “while there aren’t so many news teams around to get in the way.”


End file.
